


a pale imitation of the soul

by smithens



Series: en l'année 1830 [3]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Illnesses, Injury Recovery, July Revolution, M/M, logic and philosophy week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Combeferre does not allow himself to be afraid in this room.
In the summer of 1830, Combeferre, anxious, spends a night watching over Enjolras, who is gravely wounded.





	

_ August 6, 1830 _

His flat has always felt small, and few of his possessions have a consistent place: there is always a book here and a specimen there, he rediscovers things thought lost and loses his spectacles too often in the nooks and crannies created by his various things.

In less strenuous times, this is merely annoying for Combeferre, but he adapts to his own environment well enough. At times, the clutter is even comforting, though he regrets the impulsivity that causes it.

Now, with Feuilly asleep at the corner desk, with Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire sleeping also but curled around one another on the floor nearby, the lack of space is oppressive. Combeferre sits in a wooden chair at the side of his bed, taking up as little space as as he can. Enjolras lies before him, sleeping without stirring.

Several days earlier, Joly had created a semblance of structure with hasty organizing and rearranging, but with five men in one bedchamber there is no room to breathe.

The heat, too, is inescapable at all times but at night - morning will come soon, and he will need to close the window. Moonlight shines through the window and illuminates the bed in a manner picturesque, casting a cold glow around Enjolras's pale, tousled hair.

Earlier, as he slept, they folded the linens above his hips but below his chest, to preserve his body heat and some modesty but also to be sure of his breathing and his heartbeat.

Combeferre does not allow himself to be afraid in this room - there ought not be emotion in medicine. In a hospital, it is better to remain methodical, and to keep one's actions impersonal and partial only to the maintenance of good health. (It is significantly easier to keep composure when he is at rounds tending to strangers than in his own bedroom.)

Thus, he does not think of this feeling as fright: it is pervasive, and it is physical, but he cannot call it fear. The pit in his stomach and the pressure in his head are symptoms of a known cause, but he cannot control them just as he cannot now wish for improvement and expect results from inaction.

The bruises along Enjolras's torso have begun to fade, but the skin of his shoulder is still red, the sutures there stretched taut, and the lymph glands at his neck and beneath his arms remain swollen. Combeferre has done what he knows is best, using methods tried and current, and Joly - less practiced, but just as knowledgeable - has provided additional care with ceaseless patience and utmost ability.

Yet still the fever persists, and when Enjolras wakes it is as though a pale imitation of his soul is occupying his body.

Or, perhaps, a pale imitation of his body is housing his soul.

No matter the case, it discomfits Combeferre to see a friend so dear as Enjolras endure such pain. He is unaccustomed to worry; in the past, worrying over Enjolras, of all men, was not worth the expended effort. In the past, Enjolras had recovered from injuries swiftly - so swiftly as to be astounding. His charm and dedication served him well in avoiding altercations, too, but in the streets against a guard there is only so much one man can do.

In the midst of revolution they had quarreled, and now Combeferre cannot help but wonder, if...

He leans forward, cringing as the chair squeaks under him, to place his hands upon Enjolras’s exposed skin. The feeling is not what Combeferre has come to think of as Enjolras - not strong, or stone-like, but warm and clammy with fever. His chest rises and falls with his breath, steady, and despite the pallid appearance, beneath his palms Combeferre feels from Enjolras only signs of life. With utmost gentleness, he draws his fingers along Enjolras’s chest, from sternum to clavicle to mandible. Beneath his jaw, his neck is still swollen, although a little improved. Infection has not been kind to him - then, illness is kind to no one.

Enjolras’s breath catches, and Combeferre pulls away as though burned. He clasps his hands in his lap, grips his own fingers, and stares at Enjolras’s parted lips, his heart pounding. 

Then Enjolras moves a little, breathes in a way that seems deliberate rather than subconscious, and then:

“Citizen,” murmurs Enjolras, like it is Combeferre’s name - but it could be any of them sitting here, to Enjolras. His eyes are closed. 

“It is only me,” Combeferre says, his voice in his own ears as choked and stiff as he feels.

Enjolras stretches his fingers by curling and uncurling his hand into a fist, and Combeferre watches carefully.  If Enjolras doesn’t flinch with the action, it could be that his pain has lessened - or, more likely, that the laudanum hasn’t yet worn off.

“Citizen Combeferre, only,” Enjolras continues, in a breathy, but almost lighthearted tone - perhaps he knew after all. 

“Yes.”

He flexes his fingers again, taps the quilt, and this time Combeferre understands. He takes Enjolras’s hand only to be surprised by the strength of his grip.

“You are not  _ only _ , Combeferre, do not disservice yourself.” Enjolras speaks with his eyes closed, his lips hardly moving, but he clasps Combeferre’s hand with surprising vigor. “I am grateful to have you beside me.”

“Rest,” says Combeferre, rubbing his thumb in circles at the back of Enjolras’s hand, slowly lifting his other hand to try to take a pulse. “You require it.”

A moment passes.

Combeferre presses his middle and index fingers to the inside of Enjolras’s wrist, counts, and when thirty counts have passed, he releases the breath he had held.

“And you,” Enjolras murmurs, and then he is once again silent - but for his breathing, which comes steady.

Combeferre looks him over: the glow at his face, the sweat at his neck, his bare and blistered shoulder. Behind him, someone snores, or stirs, and then returns to hopefully peaceful sleep.

But no matter how much he urges himself to, no matter how much he knows he needs it, Combeferre cannot allow himself to join them.


End file.
